Putting Makeup on Dead People

by Jen Violi

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  I’m not sure what that has to do with my question. “Can morticians not have boyfriends? I mean, you’re married, right?”

  “Yes I am, but you’re so, well, young.”

  I lean forward on my chair. “You weren’t always this old.”

  “No.” He groans a little and leans back to stretch his bad leg out. “I was not always this old.”

  “Is it like royalty or something? I have to have been born into it?”

  He laughs. “Not exactly, but often it works that way.”

  As far as I know, no one in my family is in the business, and I’m not descended from any kind of funerary line. Dad sold steel beams, and Mom’s a secretary at St. Camillus Elementary School.

  He sighs. “So you’re really looking to get into the business?”

  He makes it sound like the Mafia, so much that I almost giggle, but I realize that wouldn’t be professional; and I am, after all, a person seeking a profession.

  “I guess so. I mean, yes I am.” I sit up straight in my chair. “What do I need to do?”

  “School’s the first step. And Chapman’s the closest one to here. Chapman College of Mortuary Science. I think I have one of their catalogs somewhere.” He stands and limps over to a tall file cabinet and rifles in the middle drawer. “Here it is. We just got the new one.” He hands it to me and sits back down.

  On the cover of the catalog, young happy people with really white teeth smile as they walk down a wooded path next to an old brick building. I’m not sure what they have to do with Mortuary Science, and I didn’t actually think about science as being a part of it. That sudden realization stops me cold. “So,” I say, trying to sound casual, “there’s a lot of science? Like physics and stuff?”

  “It’s not physics kind of science. It’s about the human body, and really, the whole human person. If you can love the whole person, body and heart and soul, you can be a good mortician.” Mr. Brighton leans forward onto the desk, and just then he seems like someone’s grandpa. I don’t have any grandparents alive myself, but I imagine this is what a good grandpa looks like, right here. Kind and smart and like he might have faith in me. “Do you think you can do that, Donna?”

  Love seems like a strange way to put it—loving the whole person. “I don’t know. But I do think I can be with a whole person, even the bloody parts. I didn’t get freaked out when Linnie fell off her bike onto that glass bottle. And it was pretty gory.” I ruffle the pages of the catalog with my fingers and then hold it still. “And I know what it’s like to cry. I’m familiar with that.”

  Mr. Brighton nods. “That’s a start.”

  I nod back. “So what next?”

  “Why don’t you take that home with you and give it a good read? Do some thinking. See if you can imagine yourself doing this work. Maybe write about it.” He leans back in his chair. “And if you decide you’re serious, I mean really serious about this, come back. You could help out around here this summer and see how that goes. It’s not like I have people dying to get jobs here.” He smirks.

  I stare at him for a second. “Oh, I get it.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I don’t do stand-up. See you next time, Donna Parisi.”

  Walking back down the hallway and out, I can still feel the shadows around me, the sense of who I was here once. But now it’s different. Now it’s like I’m in the between space, because I can see who else I can be here. I can see another possibility, even if I’m not there yet. I hold the Chapman catalog close to my chest and whisper the word “Peace” to myself when I pass the sign on the way to my car.

  When I come through the front door, Mom asks, “How was the library?”

  “Very informative. Very librarious.”

  “Okay,” she says. “How about laborious?”

  “Yep. That too.” I feel the weight of the catalog in my backpack. I want nothing more than to read it cover to cover, and I have to think quickly how to do that undisturbed. “I think I’m going to take a bubble bath. You know, go over my lines for tonight.”

  “Fine, but remember we’re going to Mass before your show. And we’re leaving here at four thirty sharp.”

  “Got it,” I say. In my old bedroom, I change into my bathrobe, hide the catalog underneath it, and walk fast to the bathroom without incident. Since I have to fill up the tub anyway, I figure I might as well take a bath while I’m here. I put in five lidsful of bubble bath instead of the recommended two, and sink down into the steamy water. I hold the catalog up high so I don’t get it wet, and read about business classes and embalming classes and the experts who teach there from all over the globe.

  At least according to Chapman, they’re one of the best colleges in the country, if not the world. That seems a little arrogant, but I guess it’s advertising. I read their mission statement: The mission of Chapman College of Mortuary Science is to hold sacred the natural passage from life to death, to educate whole people in the art of funeral services, and to train funeral directors and morticians to be compassionate companions to both the deceased and those living in the wake of death.

  Living in the wake of death. I hadn’t thought about that, but it makes sense. Being awake and knowing someone else will never wake up again. That’s me.

  I read their tuition policy, campus history, faculty bios, and student profiles—like stringy-haired Lars, who heard his calling to mortuary school while out at sea, when he and some friends saw a dead body float to the surface. I think Lars sounds a little weird, and if I ran into him on campus, I’d probably walk the other way. But stories about Betty, the once-librarian, and the very normal-seeming Sarah, the competitive swimmer who’s only a year older than me, make me feel a little bit better.

  By the time I come out of the bathroom, I’m a plump human raisin, saturated with water and information, and I don’t have much time to get ready for Mass. At least we’re going tonight, which I like much better than Sunday. It’s like getting a free pass to sleep in. Also, something seems more holy to me about church in the evening. In the morning, it’s all so bright and stark—like the surface of things. Nighttime seems like below the surface time, when it’s darker and quieter and God can come out under some kind of cover. And so can I.

  I grab clothes from my dresser in the basement and go upstairs to get ready. I put on my powder blue skirt and the white shirt I like because it has puffy sleeves. Brushing my hair in front of the mirror, I wonder if my eyebrows are too thick, which I’d never thought about until Patty got hers waxed, and said, “See, Donna, yours could look this good too.”

  Mom walks into the room. “Are you ready?”

  Just for kicks, I say, “What if I didn’t want to go?”

  “For now, you live under this roof, and under this roof, we go to church.”

  I wasn’t trying to pick a fight. I was actually just curious. But now that Mom’s started it, I feel like maybe I’d like to fight after all. And I am actually curious. “So why do we go to church?”

  Mom stands next to me in front of the mirror and wipes away a stray smudge of lipstick. “You sound like you did when you were five. Why, why, why, everything. Can’t you just do something and not question it?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be contrary.”

  The thing is, I’m not being contrary. I really mean no, I don’t think I can. But I don’t want to make Mom suffer. She’s suffered enough. Still, I wonder why she does everything without questioning anything, at least anything important and not just what ingredients she can substitute in dessert recipes. Why everything must be a particular way. Wouldn’t it make her feel better to dig into the big things and ask some questions?

  Just then, Linnie walks in, and I get my first glimpse of her new hair color. I’m guessing it’s also Mom’s first glimpse, because she says, “Oh, dear Lord,” and holds her hand up to her mouth.

  Linnie’s hair hangs to her shoulders in bluish green strands, more of a seaweed color than the electr
ic blue she’d intended. She looks like a mermaid in exile. “Come on,” she says. “It’s not that bad.”

  Behind her, B steps into the room. “Hello, Green Goblin. I didn’t know we were wearing costumes tonight, too.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re going to wear a hat,” Mom says. “You’re not going to church like that.”

  Linnie folds her arms across her chest. “Maybe I just won’t go to church.”

  “Do not start with me. I just finished that conversation.”

  “I don’t want to wear a hat.”

  “You really should wear a hat,” B says.

  “Well, maybe you should try some of Mom’s lipstick,” Linnie says. “It matches your stupid magenta shirt.”

  B holds out his arm and checks his sleeve. “Red. My red shirt.”

  “Everyone cut it out, or we’re gong to be late,” Mom says. “And no one’s borrowing my lipstick. You can all get your own makeup.” As she heads out the door, she adds, “But Linnie, you will borrow a hat, and we will discuss your hair later.”

  At St. Camillus, we make our way down the sidewalk to the church—Mom and B first, me in the back, and Linnie marching angrily in the middle in black boots, black pants, black leather jacket, and Mom’s impulse-purchase lime green beret, full of seaweed hair.

  Father Dean Martin, the pastor of St. Camillus, greets us at the door. Father Bill, his assistant, usually does the Sunday afternoon Mass and also directs the Players’ productions. Father Dean Martin, however, provides his own variety of entertainment. Father Dean Martin, who likes people to call him by all three names because he gets such a kick out of being called Dean Martin. After Dad died, I think Father Dean thought he was taking me under his wing by offering me the job of stuffing the parish bulletins every week. I still help sometimes in the parish basement office, which smells a lot like a hardware store and has these humming fluorescent lights that give me a headache. But luckily, there are some other kids helping these days, so I only get called in every few months.

  Still, I got to spend a lot of time in the rectory observing Father Dean. He of the pale skin and the white-blond hair, who likes to belt “Volare” off-key into his letter opener. He with a complete lack of anything Mediterranean in his genetic code, but who likes to ask me at every chance where my family is from in Italy. “Calabria,” I always tell him.

  “Ah, the boot,” he always says. And I never know how to respond to that other than a pensive and vaguely meaningful nod. I wonder if Father Dean became a priest because that’s the closest he could get to being an Italian guy.

  Now I smile and shake his hand.

  Mom says, “How are you, Father Dean?”

  “How are any of us, Martha?” Dean Martin has a philosophical bent, and when he bends that way, simple conversations suddenly extend in complexity. And duration.

  “Hmm,” Mom says, which is as good an answer as I can think of to that.

  “Well, Parisi family, I just thought you should know, I’m going out for Italian with Father Bill tonight, and I’m hoping for the biggest bowl of pasta I can take in.” He pats his belly, and I notice he’s wearing a very large pizza watch. The minute hand ticks past a piece of pepperoni. “Rigatoni, macaroni, seashells, you name it.” He smiles and asks, “Donna, what’s your favorite kind of pasta?”

  “Gnocchi, I guess.”

  Father Dean nods and sighs.

  “Okay, Father,” Mom says, “I think we’re going to go find our seats now.”

  “Good idea,” he says. “Say one for me.”

  As we walk away, Linnie mumbles, “Oh my God, he is such a nutter.”

  “But he’s still a priest,” Mom hisses. “Have some respect.”

  “Okay, Father Nutter.”

  We all laugh, even Mom, who tries to pretend it’s not funny. “He’s just a little different.” She suppresses a snicker.

  Once Mass starts, though, Mom’s all business. Linnie gets pouty, and B gets easily distracted, looking around for and smiling at all the people he knows. I can’t help but think of Dad in church, so Linnie’s reaction makes sense to me, but B, I don’t get. Sometimes I want to remind him that our Dad is dead, that living without him is hard, that he shouldn’t ever forget what we lost. I couldn’t if I tried, so at church I just give in to the inevitable and go to my quiet place inside.

  I wish I could just sit there still for an hour and not get up and down and kneel and stand and sit again, but I tried that once, and Mom wasn’t such a fan of that choice. My favorite time is during Communion, after I get it and go back to my seat and close my eyes. I think about Dad, or about nothing at all. Today, I think about what Mr. Brighton said, and I say a little prayer that I am able to love the whole person and be a good mortician. I’m not sure God answers prayers like that, but I’m giving it a shot.

  For a long time, I’ve thought God is supposed to look actually a little like Mr. Brighton, but with a big long beard and some sort of God toga. But I didn’t always. Once, when I was in first grade, Mom and Dad took us to the Newport Aquarium in Kentucky, and I pointed to a sea turtle as big as me, swimming right above us. “She looks like God,” I said.

  “God isn’t a she,” Mom said.

  “What about women’s rights?” Dad asked. “Or turtles’ rights, for that matter.”

  “They can still vote—or swim—but God is our father, last I checked.”

  Dad put a hand on my shoulder. “Well, Donna, when you find your sea turtle religion, I guess you can convert.”

  Since then, I’ve been keeping my eyes open for a group that worships a sea turtle and maybe holds services in the water or something, but I don’t think it exists.

  After Mass, B stops to talk with one of his high school friends and says he’ll catch up with Mom at the car, and Linnie says she has to use the ladies’ room and pushes down the side aisle. I know she just wants to escape walking down the main aisle like Mom likes to do and which always seems to take forever. I’d also like to escape, but I don’t want to leave Mom alone.

  When we finally reach the end of the aisle, Mary the usher lady hands Mom a bulletin. “So, Martha,” she says, elbowing Mom lightly and leaning close to her, “are you seeing anyone?” She asks this like she’s some kind of secret agent. “Singles Night Bingo next Saturday. We’re having bean casserole. And the Berger brothers will be there.”

  “My husband died.” Mom uses the clipped tone that means she’s done talking.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Mary clearly does not recognize this tone. She crinkles her eyebrows, which, by Patty’s standards, are well beyond needing a good waxing. “I thought—when did that happen?”

  “Three and half years ago,” Mom says.

  “Oh, Martha.” Mary smiles brightly, playfully, winks at Mom. “There are more fish in the sea.”

  “No,” Mom says firmly, not smiling. “Just one for me. He was my only one.”

  “Well.” Mary clears her throat, looks away from Mom. She finds me. “So Donna, how about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  I shake my head no.

  Mary clears her throat again, a high-pitched clear—“Okay, ladies, you have a good night. Break a leg in the play, Donna.”

  “You too,” Mom says to Mary with a saccharine smile.

  Mary purses her lips, perplexed. “But I’m not in the play.”

  “I know.” Mom winks and steers us away from Mary.

  We walk through the parking lot, past the headless statue of Saint Camillus standing on what looks like a pair of big marble dice. Father Bill likes to say that he lost his head in a bet, but it was really the hailstorm last October. Mom shakes her head. “The nerve.”

  I want an only one, I think. I also think, I don’t want him to die.

  I wait with Mom until B and Linnie make their way to the car. Then Mom and Linnie and B go to meet Uncle Lou and Aunt Irene for dinner, and I head over to the school gym to get ready with the rest of the St. Camillus de Lellis Players, hoping they can distract
me from being sad and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.

  When I was eight, I fell in love with the Players’ nonmusical production of Auntie Mame, in which Father Bill became a last-minute understudy for the title character. After Dad died, I didn’t know what to do with all the hurt, how to feel as much as I felt. Somewhere along the way, I realized I could feel anything I wanted on a stage. None of the activities at Woodmont had ever appealed to me. I couldn’t see the point. But this was different.

  So when I was sixteen, after seeing a rousing production of The Curious Savage, I scheduled my audition. Since then, I’ve starred in such gems as Flowers for Algernon and the one Father Bill wrote himself, A Flock of Priests, which Father Bill called “theater of the absurd,” and involved inappropriately snug spandex.

  Tonight’s performance is another Father Bill original called A Very Paschal Mystery, in which a series of Lenten bank robberies get solved, and the bank robbers themselves get unmasked and converted by an innocent bystander priest. I am the hapless bank teller who nearly gets shot, save for the sudden sincere prayer of Father Will, portrayed by Richie, who, at twenty-eight, is the only Player even close to my age. I think the play is hilarious, although Father Bill has promoted it as a dramatic thriller.

  When I walk into the gym, Richie is pacing beneath a basketball hoop, pulling at the edges of his curly blond clown-wig hair. “Inner monologue,” he whispers. I nod.

  Father Bill, Dr. Roger, and Leaf are setting up the folding chairs in front of the stage. I think Father Bill is maybe pushing forty-five, but he has that Dick Clark thing going on, so he may actually be ninety-seven or something. He claims tai chi and raw-egg smoothies keep him young.

  “Where’s Linda with those sandwiches? I need some fuel.” Dr. Roger rubs his belly, bunching up his fifty is nifty T-shirt. He adjusts the brim of his fedora, which he wears even when doing checkups and fillings at his dental office. Richie swears that once, when a patient asked him to take it off, he wouldn’t give her any Novocain.